Further Ado
by schaferdramaqueen
Summary: Beatrice and Benedick think some more after they "find out" about the undying love of the other. T for minor language. Maybe some more? Haven't decided.
1. Further Ado

**AN: NO, they don't sound particularly Shakespearean. I tried, it fell flat. I apologize. But truly, you don't want the originally written lines inflicted upon you.**

**Yeah. Just random little "floaties" I had stuck between my ears on the last 6-hour car ride. Some thoughts from my FAVORITE couple in literature (from my FAVORITE Shakespeare play, actually- sorry for the slight gush) after they "find out" that the other is madly in love with them. **

Further Ado

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_Benedick's just heard about Beatrice's obsession with him. I'm stealing the setting from the 1993 movie. That fountain-splashing bit was much too epic to ignore. This is after the fountain-splashing, btw._

_.  
_

Benedick sat at the edge of the fountain for a moment more, drumming his fingers on the stone. Leonato, he knew, never started dinner half as early as he called everyone to it, and so it had become general policy to wait a half-hour or so after being summoned to arrive.

He needed to think.

His reasoning, for the acceptance of…_her_… would, he now realized, mean absolutely _nothing_ to Don Pedro. The Claudio might understand- but then, he might just laugh and make sly comments, as he had been inclined towards lately. Increasing amounts of time spent with _her_ cousin had something to do with it, Benedick was sure.

Leonato would be…difficult. It was very possible that he would be grateful to be rid of his troublesome niece, but there was also to consider Benedick's own less-than-civil treatment of…well.

And the teasing would not to be _endured._

He shifted position slightly, shaking the feeling back into numbing legs. Teasing. There was something odd, now that he thought about it, that Claudio and the Prince and Leonato had just _happened _to be speaking of Beatrice (Damn! He had been trying not to dwell on the name lest he lose all concentration whatsoever- where was he? Ah yes.) when he had just happened to be within hearing distance, and just when he had been thinking about it, that (he couldn't repress the habitual shudder), that marriage business, they had been discussing Bea- _her_ affections for himself. Could it have been merely…?

But no, it couldn't be a trick. It wasn't fathomable. How could they ever have considered that he had any softness for _her?_ Had he not protested the fact enough? At every opportunity had he not denounced her, and marriage, and shown his outstanding contempt for each?

Bracing his elbows on his knees, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. There had been that one…small slip, but they couldn't have known about that. Nothing had happened, so it didn't exist, anyway. It was forgotten. Gone. Away!

It was simply that he'd had a frustrating day, was all. See, it had been…oh, a year, about, since they had…drifted apart? Why had they in the first place? He must consider this further later- and they had been having, as usual, a (what had it been called?) "skirmish of wits" between them. What had it been about?

Anyway, for some reason or another, it had escalated into a shouting match, till they were both red in the face and howling. He'd been leaning over a table (he remembered this part quite clearly, more's the pity) and they had been nose-to-nose, eyes burning, ears throbbing with the other's volume. Beatrice (it was useless now to deny the name) had said something- something about battles, or the war- and in the instant when he'd felt his neck would burst with rage he'd had the horrible, wild impulse to grab her shoulders and kiss her full on the mouth.

Not gently, mind you (he wasn't so far gone as that, thank the _Lord_), fierce and dominating. And in his mind she kissed him back with the same intensity but he had her by the wrists and she melted-

Then Don Pedro had entered and Beatrice had stormed from the room, cracking her fan against the door frame with a rapport like a musket shot and effectively startling Benedick back to the real world. He had managed to end any since conflict beginning to stray into such dangerous territory with a neat joke and a swift exit.

That had been _ages _ago, however. Surely the Prince couldn't remember that far back, to some inconsequential thing that never actually happened on some unmemorable, unremarkable fourteenth of June.

No, it had been fate, a serendipitous meeting arranged by he who arranges us all. After all, everyone was entitled to his share of luck in his lifetime. Mind made up, Benedick got to his feet and set off in the direction of the supper hall, whistling a happy little tune.

* * *

_After Beatrice overhears that conversation in which Hero bashes her into the ground (Woo! She speaks!) and also Beatrice is convinced of Benedick's love. Way-after; after-dinner-after. This is at night, but Beatrice has turned in early and Hero is off making eyes at Claudio. Who is staring back at her. With his mouth open (that movie again- the only time he closes that pie-hole is when he speaks, does anyone else find that odd?)._

_.  
_

Beatrice lay on her bed with her hands pressed to her mouth, making every attempt to quell the breathless giggles that bubbled up in her stomach and threatened commotion in the back of her throat. Goodness, she hadn't felt this giddy since she was six years old and that street juggler had lifted her up to toss _her _about, too.

That's what she was, now. Tossed about. Flying! She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow, unable to stop the broad grin that made her cheeks ache. She'd never really thought of it before, but it had been years since she'd last smiled like this. She could be pulling a protesting Hero behind her to go throw apples at the soldiers' horses, all over again.

Rotten apples were always the best. They smashed against the cobbles something wonderful when they were stepped on, making the most _terrific_ sticky mess and causing the riders to say some _very _interesting words.

_Here I go, getting all sentimental, _Beatrice thought, shaking her head at herself. _Give me one piece of gossip and I-_ She sat bolt upright. Gossip? It couldn't be just a tale, could it? No, no, Hero didn't gossip. It had been one of Beatrice's few exasperations with her cousin. The girl was so meek she would put a ladybug to shame! But then, perhaps Beatrice should take a lesson or two. She looked down at the pillow again (she hadn't remembered picking it up) and clutched it to her chest. She hadn't really been that awful, had she? Proud and…and, oh yes she had.

Good mood spoiled, Beatrice punched at the coverlet. The trouble was (as she set her jaw angrily- punch, punch) that she'd built up this wall. This fortress of reasons why she hated him, wanted nothing to do with him or any sort of man, ever. Other women could weep and sigh over a pair of broad shoulders (Benedick, unlike Claudio, didn't have to wear padded tunics to fill out his dress coat properly, according to Ursula- oh, fie, she _wasn't_ going to get caught up with that!), but she, Beatrice, would sit above them all and laugh at their silliness.

Funny how they were all married now and whispering about her singleness behind their hands.

Thrashing through her sheets again (she would tell Hero that there had been sand from the shore in her bed, should she ask, not that she was here now, but it was good to plan things) Beatrice firmly reminded herself that she didn't care. Those flap-skirts all had horrible husbands, barely saying two words to them, tramping home at God-knows-what hour and expecting them to be stretched out in wait for them, trussed up and ready to pop out more sons. Why, they'd never had two intelligent words in their entire lives, much less an acceptable conversation. She much preferred them that could speak, dispute with her, keep up. Maybe even best her once in a while, though of course not every time, for that would become tedious.

Abandoning the pretense of objectiveness, she closed her eyes and tucked her knees up under her chin. Benedick would be the only one she _could _have, why-ever hadn't she seen it before? Anyone else, she'd either run out of the house or they'd run out her. A strange tightness pulled at her belly when she thought of him, reminding her bizarrely of the time she ate too many currant pastries at her friend's birthday. Tens, hundreds of their little witty contests- each one throwing all they had into beating the other and seeming as if it were no trouble in the least- flipped through her mind, this one or that one snagging on something and staying a second longer on the underside of her lids.

There was a crackle in the air between them, when they spoke- she noticed this now, rather late. Perhaps she had taken it for the bite of distain. But then, her fingers wouldn't always be reaching to point out a twig in his hair, or she wouldn't be tossing at night in a fevered stew over how he'd tied his shirtsleeves precisely just to annoy her.

The fact that it was a comfort he tied his shirtsleeves instead of someone else tying them for him was one to be resolutely denied.

She remembered once they had- the whole group, Leonato and Hero and everyone- been out on a picnic once (this was after the Separation) and she'd tripped on a loose slat in the bridge, and he'd reflexively thrown out an arm to catch her before he realized who it was. Well, of course he had to make a jest about it, and she had to put him in his place, but she had been fervently glad that the darkening sky had hidden the flush to her skin. Why his touch had had such an effect on her, that time, she did not know. They hadn't so much as grazed hands since the…end of their previous relationship, maybe that had something to do with it. She had, at the time, brushed it off as too much wine and embarrassment at having to be saved, both of which had been factors but neither of which (Beatrice now admitted to herself) would contribute to the idea she had briefly toyed with of tripping over the next bridge, too. Naturally, she had discarded the fancy quickly, but for some ridiculous, fleeting moment it had been there.

_Oh, cow dung. _Beatrice burrowed down to the foot of the bed and sobbed.

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**Review, s'il vous plait. I know, I know, you've heard it before, you want to stab me with a spoon for repeating it, but, well...like most people, I like reviews, and am rather antsy waiting around for them. Sigh. The curse.**


	2. More Like A Nuptial Than The Last

**Here's another one. I figured both Beat. and Ben. (What? I can't call them B and B…too confusing. OR Be and Be. And Bea just looks…I dunno. That's how I took notes, anyway. Beat and Ben. MOVING on.) would be a bit giddy and (ahem) eager after their sudden explosion into love.**

This Looks Rather More Like A Nuptial Than The Last One

_._

_Here we are, after the end of the play. After the double marriage. Evening._

_._

It had required a huge amount of self-control to stay within the bounds of polite society. You'd think that at one's own _wedding_ there would be some allowances made, but there was no such luck; instead, everyone was looking at you all the time (or at least half of everyone- thank goodness for Hero and Claudio.)

It was driving Beatrice mad.

She couldn't admit that, either- she was getting quite enough sly looks, thank you very much, without completely losing all dignity. It would have almost been better if they had been kept at the opposite ends of the party, like in stories from the far east- then, at least, there would be distractions, and temptation would be more difficult to give in to.

But, and she suspected that someone up above was having a good laugh at her for it, custom here dictated that they hardly leave each other's sides throughout the entire ordeal. Some small relief could be found in knowing that Benedick felt the same way (she could see it in his eyes- he'd never been very good at hiding his thinking from her), but there was many a moment where she had to clamp her fists tightly behind her back to keep from punching the next well-wisher half-way to Naples. Couldn't they leave them alone for _five minutes_…!

They survived by joking. During the dances, for instance, Benedick had spun or flung her high up at every opportunity, winking largely at the crowd when she was forced to hang on tight to his neck to keep from falling. She'd got back at him, though, when she'd bested his jig so absolutely that he'd been hissed out of the circle.

She - and him- had been doing everything to get the other couple to take their place in the center of attention. This was supposed to have been _their _day, after all. Why should they get to lurk in the shadows? _Next time, _Beatrice thought crossly, _I'll get people more…attention-grabbing to get married with. _Then was aware of Benedick's hand folded around her own and, oh, marriage_ wasn't_ something she was going to do over.

They finally managed to peel away once the sun went down and the revelers had begun to make their way back to Leonato's courtyard. Benedick seized upon the chance and, saying that he wanted to revisit the place he'd been tricked that week (he waved away those who would accompany them by saying that he'd prefer Beatrice "humiliate him without an audience, for once"), managed to extricate them from the mass.

The stillness of the summer orchard closed in around them. Beatrice laid her head on his shoulder and sighed. He looked down at her.

"What is my lady thinking?"

"That I'm glad they're gone." She detached herself from him and twirled across the middle of the path. "There's so much space! I'll never underestimate the joys of fresh air again."

Benedick chuckled. "I've escaped chaining again, it seems. Shall I take you back and demand that it doesn't count if I've married a bird?"

She stopped, putting her hands on her hips. "The bird would be grateful," she replied, "If you would do so; she wishes that the toad leave her in peace."

"Ah, but this toad has remembered to bring his net;" and he swooped her up and kissed her thoroughly enough for her to need the support of his arms.

"I thought that that was supposed to bring out the handsome," Beatrice said, when she had caught her breath. "But no, you've still got your warts."

"Then perhaps we should try again," he suggested, and bent down. By the time they broke apart this time, they were both gasping.

Leaning back against a tree, Benedick lifted off the wreath of flowers that someone had procured for Beatrice's head (Hero had been given one, also) and ran his fingers through her hair, stroking it. Beatrice relaxed into his chest.

"Is this not strange?" she murmured, listening to the strong thrumming of his heartbeat. The sound comforted her. She wished that she could wrap herself up in it, like a warm blanket.

"Is what not strange?" He gazed down at her with an expression of greatest contentment.

"This." Arcing her hand vaguely to the side to encompass the grass, the stars, everything. "Us."

"In a way." He smiled. "A week to turn hatred to wed? That is a bit fast. But I suppose…" he shrugged.

"We never really ended it," Beatrice finished for him. She raised a palm to his cheek, and he turned his head to plant a soft kiss into it. "I hadn't recognized how we were always seeking each other out, ready and waiting with some fresh new jab. We couldn't let it rest."

"And Don Pedro had to stick his nose in." Benedick grimaced. "I'll be thinking up a reward for him as well as his brother."

"_We_ will," corrected Beatrice. "And wasn't that to wait until morning?"

Benedick huffed. "Maybe."

"Besides," Beatrice continued, "I'm just as stuck as you are. More so, actually, because I can't dance off to who-knows-where whenever I please, like you can."

"You're coming with me," Benedick poked at her nose. "I'm not leaving you loose around here. Haven't you given your uncle enough strife? If I let you run free you'd bring the sky crashing down around his ears."

"Ah, yes, but I'd only be hurting one. _You'd_ leave a trail of distressed maids in your wake from here to the isles of spice if I let you off on your own."

"However would I manage that?" He wrinkled his forehead, sparking eyes belying his tone of confusion.

"Hush." Her finger appeared across his lips. "I'm not going to say it, and you know it well."

"Dear Beatrice, sweet Beatrice, Beatrice of my heart, wilt thou grace me with a word?" His hands snaked down around her waist.

"Oh, no you don't." She swatted at him. He, grinning wickedly, didn't move an inch.

"I'll scream."

"We're married."

"Damn."

Benedick laughed in surprise. "I should watch my tongue around you, now that you're a reflection of me."

"Please do."

"Huh! If I were any sort of man I'd clap you for such impudence." He nodded as Beatrice raised an eyebrow. "But I'll take pity on you, just this once."

"Thanks ever so." Standing on tiptoe to kiss him again, she stopped and made a face. "Uncle will be wondering where we are."

"Based on the glances he was shooting Don Pedro as we left, I think he knows exactly where we are." But Benedick pushed her and himself back into the middle of the path. "We_ had_ better to go," he said regretfully.

"Fine. Off to the den of wolves." Beatrice took a step. "Coming, husband?" She stumbled slightly over the title. An peculiar new sensation pricked at her rib cage.

Squinting, Benedick crossed his arms. "I'm not going to trail after my-" He paused almost imperceptibly "-wife like a dog after his master."

"Well, I'm certainly not going to follow _you_. You'd lead me over a cliff and laugh as I tumbled down."

"Why then," said Benedick, and moved to claim her hand, "We'll simply have to walk side-by-side."


	3. Consequences

**Soo. Not sure how I feel about this one. It's…kind of…peculiar.**

Consequences

_ "Ack!"_

Benedick shot upright, convinced that his enemies were at that very moment charging out of the shadows, swords raised. His fists clenched and unclenched on the edge of the bed-roll, mirroring the gasping of his breath. Where were they? They had been here, with the blood, and now-

_"Benedick?"_

He near swallowed his tongue in fear. Not his tent, dear God, not in his tent! He had thought that was over, over with-

Something touched his shoulder. Faster than thought he whipped around, catching an elbow and a forearm in a crushing grip. This one would not get away! This one would pay for the crimes of his fellows!

"Benedick." It sounded like the same person speaking, but now _very _calm and controlled. "Put me down."

_What? _

He blinked, and blinked again. All was black. Heart still skittering erratically, Benedick squinted, trying in vain to make out shapes in the darkness.

"You," said the person quietly, "are going to break the bone."

_Beatrice!_

The hairs on the back of his neck flattened; he pried his fingers away and shook them, trying to get the feeling back into them. This was no battlefield. Home, he was home, in his bedchamber, and the spongy give beneath his feet were_ not_ bodies but the mattress. A man in a black coat stared up at him, but he had no eyes. They had been pecked out by the crows.

Benedick was suddenly aware of an emptiness at his side. Terror rising again, he struck out at the air. They would not have her!

A sharp popping noise smote his right ear. Light flashed; he turned, alarmed, to see Beatrice kneeling on the hearth in front of the small fire that she had presumably just re-lit from the embers. The warm glow washed reason, finally, into him. Sheepish, Benedick watched Beatrice carefully for the shock, and the fear- but her face reflected only weariness.

Sensing his scrutiny, she looked up. "Well, sit down, husband!" On other, less well-loved features, the shadows cast by the flames would have been freakish, grotesque; but as it was they only served to hide that which Benedick wanted to see. Taking her advice, he slowly lowered himself back to the bed. Beatrice wrinkled her eyebrows (was she worried? He could not properly tell in the dimness.) and returned to him, and this time he did not fly into violence at her touch, but pulled deeper into her embrace. Her hands massaged his back.

"What was it?" It was not a whisper, but still the words were spoken soft enough that an outsider would have to be between the two to hear them. The tone was a message: _I am here. Do not be afraid._

And Benedick's body responded, relaxing (had he been shaking?), unknotting, remembering that it was late and he should be sleeping. But his mind could not quiet. _Neither Claudio nor Don Pedro are so haunted, _he thought, the heat from his own repressed tears (tears! He, crying? Over something so silly!) burning against Beatrice's night-shirt. None of his comrades had become as weakened, as foolish as he was being right now. Aye, death was a part of life. He had seen many a hanging even before his first skirmish. So why did he cower?

Angry, he pushed out of Beatrice's hold. She was unperturbed, waiting.

"It was the dinner tonight, I think," he said. "The meat was not quite cooked." This was politeness. The meat had long since drowned in its own juices by the time it had reached them.

"A French custom, said the Prince." Beatrice was purposefully drawing the conversation towards the inconsequential, reminding him that war was _over. _For that, Benedick could not have loved her more.

"The Prince is given to custom," she continued, somehow understanding as she had from the first night that Benedick needed a voice, a tie to the immediate world to secure him against the past. "Though he is also given to misunderstanding it. Do you recall the ants?"

In different circumstances, he would have grinned. "Vividly."

"They were exactly as beneficial as he promised. Though I suspect not in the way he had foreseen." Her right fingers kneaded at a spot on her left arm. _Where I grabbed her, _realized Benedick guiltily. But- and this was odd, he hadn't noticed it before now- she was showing that something had hurt her. It was not a large movement, and seemed absentminded. Yet Beatrice had never, to his knowledge, allowed any sort of vulnerability, of infirmity, to reveal itself. Not to others, and sometimes (Benedick suspected) not to herself. It was as if she felt more comfortable in his presence than even her own.

Did he not also take his ease from her? Alone, he brooded. With Beatrice, he beamed. Any fool could make the connection.

She comforted him now, against the war- such a complete turn-about from his tent by the battlefield, where war comforted him against Beatrice.

Then, when he would wake, irritable and scowling from the memory of some cutting remark, muttering furiously under his breath responses that were too late, and far too many. Only when the merciful war-drums sounded could he escape the aftermath. He was a man, and a true one! The chattering of women did not sway him.

The thought spurred him to take even greater risks in battle, recklessly proving what had never, to any but himself, been in doubt. The field had become his peace of mind.

And now, he was left with the consequences- and also Beatrice's embrace. The changes made would not deny the experience gained.

She shifted slightly, leaned to the side. Benedick roused. "It is far past time to be dreaming," he murmured, limbs seeming to become heavy in response. "Come. I am…ready to rest."

Smiling, she reached for the covers that he had no memory of casting away. "Sometimes," she said carefully, "It helps to wake oneself with laughing."

_Why did that sound familiar? Ah, yes. _"I've heard tell of that, once. Was not it Hero who said you kept her up with your mirth?"

Something flitted across her eyes. "Perhaps. I did not realize I was so loud."

"You have not made a sound that I have heard."

"It's because I'm too far gone. Marriage to _you_," she kissed him on the nose, "is exhausting."

"Good, then. The plan is successful." He endured the light slap to the cheek and lay back, yawning. "Though I do wonder that it was so quickly discovered. It worked better than I had anticipated."

"The plans of Benedick are not hard to figure out," muttered Beatrice, already turning so that the response was muffled. "They all have the ending in common: his disgrace."

Chuckling, Benedick rolled over to his side, the only place he could sleep. The rustling from the right of the bed soon gave way to silence; Beatrice's breathing gradually became deep and even. For a moment, a horrible _pang_ went through his chest, freezing his body stiff. Eyes closed, he reached behind him for Beatrice- only to find that she was already there. For as long as he needed her, and she needed him. That was to say, forever.

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**Strange-ifirous. Heavily influenced by the weird mood **_**A Tale of Two Cities **_**is putting me in. **

***ahem***

***looks pointedly at review button***

**Please?**


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